


K2tog

by alternatealto



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen, House/Wilson (Friendship), Stories from Prompts, season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:22:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alternatealto/pseuds/alternatealto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson tries, and (as usual) fails, to keep a secret from House.</p>
            </blockquote>





	K2tog

(Set at some point during Season 6, when House and Wilson were living together in Wilson's condo.)

 

**K2tog**

The problem with living with House, Wilson had decided, was that it was even more impossible to hide things from him than it had been when each of them had his own place.

Especially when you didn’t want to be mocked – and Wilson emphatically didn’t, at least not about this.  As it was, he had been reduced to doing what he needed to do on the sly –  in his bedroom or, more riskily, in his office at times when he could be reasonably sure House was trapped in the Clinic and wouldn’t be likely to barge in.  (Nor anyone else for that matter; once _anybody_ in the hospital learned what Wilson was doing, House would know in a matter of milliseconds.)

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he sighed and stretched stiff fingers, then looked at the clock on the bedside table and swore to himself.  It was later than he’d thought:  House was due in before long from his weekly session with Nolan and Wilson hadn’t even got a start on dinner yet.  Hastily he gathered up his work and put it away, then headed for the kitchen.  When House stumped in half an hour later, Wilson had a salad underway, fresh-made biscuits in the oven, and beaten eggs ready for the omelet pan. Butter and chopped mushrooms had just gone into another pan; Wilson stirred them carefully as House came over to investigate the prospects for dinner.

“Add a steak to that and I might eat it,” he sniffed, nearly burning a finger as he snatched a chunk of mushroom and popped it into his mouth.

“We had steak last night,” Wilson  reminded him, tossing greens and vinaigrette together.  “I wanted something lighter tonight.  And any time you don’t like what I’m serving, you can take over the cooking yourself, you know.”

“Right,” House agreed, pulling a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, “Next you’ll be telling me to set the table.  After that it’ll be a discussion of paper vs. linen napkins, and we’ll finish up with an argument over which flowers go into the centerpiece.”  He took a pull at the beer and let out a long, resonant belch.  “No thanks.”  He swigged from the bottle again, looking disappointed when his second burp failed to reach the operatic status of the first one.

“You’re in a mood this evening,” Wilson observed mildly as he carried the salad bowl to the table.  The table was, in fact, already set, and there was no centerpiece in evidence.

“Nolan wants me to focus on empathy this week.”

“Ah.  Hence the mood – nothing worse than being asked to consider the feelings of others.”

“Because it’s _pointless_.  I’m outnumbered – if I have to go around thinking about everyone else’s feelings, when do I get to think about my own?”

“Well, my understanding has always been that thinking about other people is supposed to take your mind _off_ your own feelings, especially—”  Wilson poured the beaten eggs carefully into the heated pan, “—especially if they aren’t happy ones.”  He swirled the mixture around a little, then set the pan back on the heat to let the eggs cook.

“And what if they _are_ happy ones?” House demanded.  “Then I won’t _want_ to take my mind off them – do I get a pass on focusing on other people then?”

“Uh, no,” Wilson replied, tilting the pan and lifting one side of the omelet carefully to let the uncooked egg run underneath it, “Normally, House, being happy means you’re more likely to focus on other people because you don’t have to spend time worrying about yourself.”

“Normally.  What if I don’t want to be normal?”

Wilson, placing a spoonful of the mushrooms carefully on one side of the nearly-cooked omelet before folding it in half, looked at him, slightly startled.  “I thought that was the whole point of the therapy.”

House looked at him, then looked away, bouncing his cane on the floor the way he did when he was agitated about something.  “I’m not in therapy to be normal.  Normal is stupid.  Normal is boring.  Turn me “normal” and I can’t do my job.”

Wilson couldn’t exactly dispute that.  He returned his attention to the pan, flipping the fluffy omelet to brown the other side before setting the pan off the heat and cutting the omelet in half.  “Okay.  Then you’re in therapy because . . . ?”  He reached for the plates in the warming oven.

“You _know_ why – because of the happy thing.  I want it.  I’m tired of not having it.  Plus, condition of my release.”  The last sentence was tacked on a half-second too late.

It was like House, Wilson thought, to have stopped talking about his real motivation for this for weeks, then suddenly just come out with it, apparently apropos of nothing, here in the kitchen just before dinner.  He ladled more mushrooms generously over each portion, then handed one plate to the other man.  “Well,” he said, thoughtfully, “If Nolan thinks working on empathy will help you get there, then maybe you should go ahead and work on it.”  Moving quickly, he pulled the pan of biscuits out of the oven, put them into a covered basket to keep warm, and brought them and his own plate to the table.

“You have to help me practice,” House told him, seating himself and starting to devour his half of the omelet as if he’d had nothing to eat for a week.

“Sure,” Wilson agreed.  “Whatever I can do.”  He rolled his eyes as House forked a large chunk of Wilson’s omelet onto his own plate.  “You can start by realizing that other people might also be hungry.”

“You like salad.  I don’t,”  House shrugged in response.

* * * * *

 

Later that night, once certain that House was asleep in his own bedroom (there really wasn’t much point to calling it the “guest room” any longer, he supposed), Wilson carefully got back to work on his project.  There wasn’t much time left for him to finish it, but trying to rush would only end up costing him when he had to go back and fix mistakes.  He’d learned that early on.  Slowly, his unaccustomed fingers fumbled with tools he’d never learned to use, never even thought of using before a few weeks ago – but   gradually, as he found the right rhythm, things began to come together and he was able to pick his way through the pattern with greater and greater ease. What he was holding was suddenly, recognizably, _something_ , not just a random-seeming collection of colors.  His confidence increased; it looked as if he might not have to stay up all night to finish, after all.

Which was good, because tomorrow was going to be a difficult day in a lot of ways.  Wilson’s brief feeling of success dimmed a little as he remembered just why it was he was putting himself through this, how little time there was left.  Automatically, he looked at the bedside clock, which showed an hour much later than he’d expected.  Shocked, he looked at the thing in his hands, then back at the clock.  Had he really been at this for over two hours?  Obviously yes, which meant he had to get to bed soon, or he’d be facing a lot of stress tomorrow on far too little sleep.  He’d have to find time, somehow, to finish this in the morning.  Carefully, he tucked the project into his briefcase, set a new combination on the lock in case House felt like snooping for some reason, and climbed into bed.

Ten minutes later, he was so soundly asleep he never even heard his bedroom door open.

* * * * *

 

Alarm clock.  Shower, shave, brush, blow-dry.  Wake up House.  Start coffee.  Wake House again.  Start breakfast.  Wake House for the third time.  Drink coffee, start eating breakfast, look at clock, wake House again and threaten him with dismemberment.  Finish breakfast, brush teeth, start dressing, notice that House was finally up.  Finish dressing, grab briefcase, jingle keys impatiently while waiting for House to finish what morning routine he had.  Shove toast and coffee into House’s hands, drag him to car, head out to hospital.  Arrive at hospital, wake House for the fifth time, haul him out of the car and into the lobby.

So far, Wilson mused, it had been a typical morning.  Opening his office door, he set his briefcase in its usual spot behind the desk and called his assistant to check on the day’s schedule.  Aside from his already-existing commitment in the afternoon, he had rounds, then only three appointments with patients.  One other appointment had been re-scheduled, and a fifth patient had had to be admitted two days before, leaving two appointment spaces open.

“Don’t make me any more appointments today,” Wilson told her.  “I’ve got work I have to get done before three o’clock, and I can use that open time.”  A hour might – _might_ – just give him time to finish the project before three.  He crossed his fingers, and headed out for rounds.

* * * * *

 

His first cancellation had been for 11:00.  Wilson glanced at the clock on his desk, then looked doubtfully at the wall separating him from House’s office.  Diagnostics didn’t have a case, which might mean House would spend his spare time shooting space zombies or working his way around the latest set of barriers the hospital’s I.T. department had tried to set up between him and the Internet’s copious supply of free porn.  Or it might mean he’d get bored and decide to come harass Wilson.  Finally, Wilson crossed his fingers briefly, then picked up the briefcase and set it on the desk in front of him, frowning as he tried to recall the new combination he’d set the night before.  Finally, he got it unlocked and reached in for his nearly-finished project.

It was gone.

Stunned, he stared at the inside of the case, bereft of everything but the paperwork he normally used it for.  He scrabbled hopelessly among the sheets of paper as if expecting the missing items to suddenly appear from hiding, then gave up, closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples.  Great.  Just great.  Now he was going to have to go confront House, something he was definitely _not_ in the mood to do, and certainly not about this. He sighed and dragged himself to his feet.

“Where is it?”

House pulled his attention away from the computer screen (this week’s attempt by I.T. had been so feeble it was obvious they’d really given up and were just going through the motions) and looked at him uninterestedly for a second before turning back to the images of one very competent young woman and three very happy young men.

“Where’s what?”

Wilson swallowed his annoyance.  “What you picked the lock and took from my briefcase last night.  I need it back, House.  Now.”

House’s lips twitched slightly, his eyes not leaving the screen.  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“House.  Don’t don’t do this.  You have to give it back to me, I need it.”  He tried to make his voice authoritative; he could tell it came out pleading.

House kept his eyes on the computer screen, where matters were reaching a crescendo.

“At least . . . at least tell me you brought it to work with you.  Tell me you didn’t leave it back at the loft.”

House suddenly reached to turn up the volume on the speakers, filling the room with moans and screams and curses of pleasure, backed by indescribably obscene noises.  “Oh, yeah,” he said to the girl on the screen, “do it, baby.  Take ’em all the way.”

_“House!”_  

House hit the pause button and turned to face him.  “Why would I take anything from your briefcase?  All you ever keep in there is paperwork and similar boring stuff.”

“Because you _never_ pass up a chance to embarrass, annoy, or humiliate me.  Just _give it back_ , all right?”

“That implies that whatever was in there was embarassing.”

“House . . .” Wilson sighed.  “Please.  Just once.”

“Nope.”

Wilson stared at him a moment longer, then turned away.

“Not,” House continued, “until you tell me what a barely semi-observant Jew is doing knitting a royal blue _kippah_ , at least.”

Wilson froze in place.  _I should have known.  He can’t let anything go until he figures it out.  But why the hell can’t he just –_   “You could have just asked,” he told the other man, turning back to face him.

“More fun this way.”

“Fun.  Right.  Okay, then.  Sarah Rosenstein died last night.  Her funeral is at three o’clock this afternoon; I need to be there.”

“And her family is so ultra-Orthodox you can only wear a hand-made yarmulke to the service?  What are they, Amish Jews?”

“No.  Look, House, I – ” He stared past the other man, out the window.  “Sarah was . . . she was barely ten years old.  Her _bubbe_ taught her to knit to give her something to keep her occupied during her chemotherapy sessions.  I noticed what she was doing one day, and she decided _I_ needed to learn how to knit, and for some reason she wanted me to knit a _kippah_.  So she was giving me lessons, a few minutes here and there during the day.  We were making it together.  And . . . when she got too . . . too weak to hold the needles any more, she asked me if I’d finish it, and I promised her I would.

“I just want to keep a promise to a little girl, House.  That’s all.  I want to finish it, and I want to wear it to her funeral, and I need you to give it back to me so I can do that.  And now I’ve spent all this time looking for it, and I’m not sure I can get it finished.  Just . . . just give it back.  Please.”

They were both motionless for a moment, and then House pulled open a drawer and silently handed Wilson the yarn, the needles, and the nearly-completed yarmulke.  He didn’t meet Wilson’s eyes. 

“Thank you.”  Wilson told him, taking it.  “And next time, House . . . ask.”  He turned and left without another word.

* * * * *

 

His next break wouldn’t be until one-thirty.  Wilson put the yarmulke into a drawer where it would be in easy reach, and actually managed to get a stitch in here and there between appointments with patients, but it was quickly becoming obvious he wouldn’t be able to get the whole thing finished, barring some kind of miracle.  He’d have to leave a little after two o’clock to be sure of making it to the cemetery in time for the service there.  He’d had his afternoon schedule re-arranged to allow for that, but he couldn’t exactly tell Cuddy that he needed to be excused from their lunch meeting with a potential donor to PPTH’s cancer center, so just before noon he put the knitting back into the drawer and went off to be charming, professional and sincere.

Naturally, the lunch meeting turned into lunch-and-a-tour, and by the time it was finished it was ten minutes to two.  Standing in the elevator, he sighed at the realization that there was no way now to keep his promise. If only House hadn’t . . . !  But then he caught himself.  _I could have told him.  I know what he’s like; I probably should have told him.  __If I hadn’t been so focused on avoiding the mockery . . ._

_I’m sorry, Sarah,_   he thought.  _It’s my fault._   Wearily, he trudged down the corridor to his office.  He’d just have time to change his red tie for a black one he’d brought with him and put on his black suit coat before he left.

He pushed open his office door and stopped dead.

House was sitting in Wilson’s desk chair, his feet propped up on a stack of insurance forms. His lap was full of yarn, and he was . . . _knitting?_

He was knitting – quickly, deftly, as if he’d never done anything else with his spare time.  Wilson stood in bewilderment, watching House knit two together all the way around a row with effortless ease, then begin on the next row.   “Almost done,” he said in an absent tone, and less than a minute later he broke the yarn, then frowned briefly before fashioning a paperclip into a workable imitation of a tapestry needle and cinching the final stitches closed.  He clipped off the remaining yarn with Wilson’s desk scissors, then got up, limped around the desk, and handed him the completed _kippah_ , saying nothing more.

Wilson took it in the same silence, looking from the yarmulke in his hand to House and back again. There had been about eight rows left and House had not only finished them, he had obviously figured out how Wilson had been working the decreases, because the newly-knit rows were all done in pattern.  Somehow Wilson wasn’t surprised to see that House was a better knitter than he was – those eight final rows were neater, closer, and more even than the rest of the fabric.

“I didn’t know you could knit,” was all he could think of to say.

House was staring over Wilson’s left shoulder, as if looking at something the other man couldn’t see.  “When I was ten,” he began, abruptly, “I got to spend one summer at my grandparents’ place in Kentucky.   They were my Mom’s parents; my father was off on some kind of assignment where it was too dangerous to take us along.

“I was always better off without him, so I was . . . I liked it there.   My _oma_ could knit practically anything you can think of, I used to watch her do it.  And when she saw I was interested, she taught me.  I liked it; I got good at it.  _Oma_ told me I had a natural talent, and I was really proud.

“Then my dad came back.  He . . . he yelled at me, made me take what I was making and rip it all apart again.  He broke the needles.  He yelled at _Oma_ , told her he wasn’t going to let her turn me into a sissy; he yelled at my mother for not stopping her; he almost got into a fistfight with my grandfather.  We had to get our stuff and leave right that minute, he barely let us say goodbye. We never went back.  The next time I saw my grandmother was at her funeral.

“I never tried to knit again, until . . .”  he gestured at the _kippah_ without looking at it, then drew a deep breath.   “At least I got to finish, this time.”

The room went silent.  In another minute, Wilson knew, he would have to change coat and tie, head out to his car, drive to the cemetery.  But for now he could only stand, holding the yarmulke and wondering why it was that for House, everything had to come at a higher price than life seemed to demand of anyone else. 

He couldn’t speak, but House looked at him and seemed to see whatever it was he needed to see in Wilson’s eyes.  He reached out to take the _kippah_ and carefully put it on Wilson’s head.  “Get a move on, or you’ll be late,” he said gruffly, and left the office without another word.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> For those readers unfamiliar with knitting terminology, "K2tog" is an abbreviation for "Knit two together", a method of working a decrease by combining two stitches into one so as to have fewer stitches in the next row. 
> 
> This story was written in response to prompts one of my LJ Friends gave me. The prompt words were "knit", "pick", and "belch" -- I had fun incorporating them into the story.


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